Sometimes I reflect on the shore of the violet sea about being late, just like this time. I ask myself, “am I late to experience the flutters the others feel when someone holds them or grasps their fingers?” I draw a circle on the sand to mirror the cycle I am in. I have closed myself from availability; too afraid that what comes from the outside of my box will only destroy than nurture me. Or is it that I have the bars too high to reach for anyone? I hope not. I will consider this as fear the–of being spoken by another’s mouth or being called by another’s attention. For years that I have locked myself in my own asylum, I have forgotten to see the sun or even how hot it feels. I can only imagine its beauty, but never its feeling. As the waves crash on the shore in this afternoon, I look at the couple, too far from my reach on my right, with longing. They are drenched in sweet syrup and, like the curse embedded in heart, I can only feel anything, but happiness for them. I have watered myself into a flower filled with sorrow and selfishness. And now that I am here, I do not know how to kill it.
WORD COUNT: 217
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